


A Collection of Dragon Age Drivel

by scroopcadash



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: "should they kiss or talk?", F/M, Faer Trevelyan, House Cadash - Freeform, Inquisitor Cadash - Freeform, It's always the question, Scroop Cadash, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Talk always wins, cully wully, one shots, why am i like this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scroopcadash/pseuds/scroopcadash
Summary: I like writing DA fanfiction, but I don't like finishing things.So I'm writing short scenes that I get inspired to write.I don't know when I'll be updating this, but I hope when I do, they're enjoyable scribblez. :)-S





	1. Inquisitor Faer Trevelyan

~ **Faer **~****

The Inquisitor leaned against the battlements, a stack of papers sitting under a rock between the merlons.

“Dammit.” She muttered, watching the piece of paper she had just flung into the breeze nose-dive and crash into the wall, before floating to the ground.  
“If you would actually catch the breeze, like a bird, that’d be great.” She fitfully folded another piece of paper, chucking it off the battlements, to much of the same effect as the last five she had thrown.

The stack had significantly decreased by the time one of the paper-birds went flying correctly over the wall.  
A smile ran across Faer Trevelyan’s face briefly, before it reverted back to a scowl.  
She hastily folded another one, the sun was fast sinking, and she really ought to just burn these—  
“I believe the soldiers are covered in snow, quite well enough in the valley.”  
The Inquisitor spun towards the voice, eyes wide.  
“Erm, Commander.”  
Commander Cullen Rutherford nodded his head respectfully.  
“I didn’t mean to startle you, Inquisitor.”  
“Er--, you didn’t”

Faer’s stomach felt as if a lead weight had replaced the organs that ought to be housed there, and if it weren’t for the chill making her cheeks rosy already, she knew she’d be fighting a blush.  
Cullen nodded, hands held behind his back, as if he had better things to be doing, but for some reason, here he was.  
There was a second’s awkward silence.  
Faer wiped her cold nose on the sleeve of her tunic before rigidly reaching for another piece of paper from the stack.  
Cullen watched as she folded it down the middle, creasing it, and then folded the corners so that they would point sharply.  
Lady Trevelyan tossed the bird into the brisk evening wind, off the battlements.  
She was acutely aware of Cullen watching it until it disappeared into the valley.  
She was grabbing for another one. Not many more now, and then she would go back to that endless pile of papers, the ones she couldn’t toss over the wall, sitting on her desk.

“So, Inquisitor…” Began Cullen, good-naturedly. “Is there some purpose to this—odd, but charming, pastime?”  
Faer glanced over at Cullen. The coolness of the evening wind was making his face flush as well.  
Faer fought back a grin. He looked so funny when he was cold—oh.

The Inquisitor’s vision seemed to blur. Suddenly she was reliving Haven, the music of celebration abruptly halted, the sound of an unannounced army marching through the valley, the cries of fear; the sound of desperate hands pounding on the gates, then Cole’s warning, and Cullen’s plan.  
His face was cold then too. He was always cold. They were all cold. The sort of chill that arrives to live in your bones, never feeling you’ll be warm again. She was cold. She had walked for hours—hours in the freezing cold…and then—then he was there swooping her into his warm arms--.  
The Inquisitor shook her head, startled to find Cullen looking at her nervously.  
“I—I’m sorry, did I miss something?” She asked abruptly.  
Cullen’s brow was furrowed; he gently laid his gloved hand on her arm.  
“Are you alright? Do you need someone to talk to—“  
Faer shook her head.  
“No. No I’m fine.”  
She shook his hand off, reaching for another page, folding it hurriedly, and then launching it off.  
Faer’s shoulders were tense. She knew Cullen was still watching her closely.  
She cleared her throat.  
“Anything I can do for you, Commander?”  
The commander leaned against the battlements slightly. Still seeming puzzled at Faer’s momentary disassociation.  
Five more pages.  
“I was…erm…told.” The Commander began, clearing his throat. “By a guard…that you were out here, and that perhaps you needed—“  
“—I’m fine.” Faer snapped back, the bird that she had finished folding went straight into a nose-dive when she released it.  
Cullen was silent for a moment.  
Maker, she did not want him to see what she was sending off the wall. She should have just burned them.  
Faer reached for the third one on the stack.  
“Can I try?” Cullen asked.  
Faer tossed a glance nervously to the Commander.  
He was inevitably going to try to make her feel better, and this seemed his next approach. It wouldn’t work. He couldn’t fix the unfixable. Especially when he was the one causing the problem, though, Maker forbid, he knew it.  
“It takes a LOT of practice.”  
Faer all but blurted out as he was reaching for one of the last two pages.  
He stayed his hand and nodded.  
“As you wish.”  
He watched the third bird fly gracefully through the breeze, noting the Inquisitor’s writing, dark against the parchment.  
“So what exactly have these precious parchments done to be deserving of such—elegant desertion?”  
Aw fuck. She was wasting supplies, wasn’t she?  
“Oh.” She said sullenly. “I didn’t think of that.”  
The Commander chuckled.  
“It’ll be that royal up-bringing, no doubt.”  
Faer wrinkled her nose, barley able to feel it move, it being so numb from the cold.  
“Probably.”  
She didn’t want to grab another one. She didn’t want Cullen to see the scrawl hastily written, scratched-out, and deserted. Oh why had she wasted so much paper?  
They stood there for a moment. Listening to the wind as it rustled the pages under the rock.  
Faer cleared her throat. _Maker, why was he still out here? ___  
“Who sent you out here again?”  
She pushed herself from the wall, standing evenly on both feet, hand aimlessly trying to be un-awkward.  
“If my presence bothers you, I apologise. I certainly have other jobs to attend to.” Cullen said, seemingly suddenly resolved that Faer was alright.  
Faer’s brow furrowed as he began walking back towards his office door.  
“Wait. Wait.” Faer turned back towards him, he glanced over his shoulder.  
“I could use some company, probably.” Faer spoke quietly.  
Cullen smiled, turning back around.  
“If you insist, Inquisitor. Although, I was not lying about those other tasks.”  
The Inquisitor suddenly felt terrible.  
“Well if you need to go—please don’t let me—“  
Cullen rolled his eyes.  
“Everyone needs a break. Those are your own words, you know.” He walked back around to where he had been a moment before.  
“Though I doubt our Spymaster takes you for your word. I don’t recall the last time I saw her have a ‘break’.”  
Faer shrugged nonchalantly.  
“Leliana must rest sometime.”  
Cullen nodded in agreement.  
“Anyway, I’d like to know how you make these things fly so well.”  
He leaned down and took one of the pages from under the rock.  
Faer’s eyes widened and she hastily snatched it from him.  
“I—er, like this—“  
She quickly folded the page and flung it off the battlements.  
Phew.  
Before Cullen could have a second’s thought, she grabbed the last page and folded it hastily into the correct shape, pulling her wrist back to send it off—and just as she was about to let it go, the page left her hand.  
Cullen was unfolding it.  
Faer let out a startled gasp, quickly reaching for it.  
“Cullen, give it back! Cullen—that’s personal—“  
Cullen raised an eyebrow at her.  
“Then why are you sending it over the battlements, right into the camps of our troops below?”  
Faer, at a loss of words, stuttered momentarily. This couldn’t be happening.  
No.  
This was an invasion of her personal space—and, and, that was incredibly rude.  
It was too late now though.  
“’and though the heavens remain thus scarred, and the state of minds from our former peace are barred, the day may come when we will find, that even through those hardest times, perhaps were we not to be so on our guard, had we but will to utter--’”  
Cullen paused reading, trying to make sense of the rest of the scribbles.  
“Utter what?” He asked after a moment of vainly scanning it over.  
Faer wanted to sink into the stones and never reappear, like a dwarf to the Deep Roads.  
“’—our words remembered? Dear Friend, Love, and—and Commander?’”  
Cullen let out a disgruntled sigh.  
Lady Trevelyan peered at the toes of her boots.  
“Commander--" He scanned the rest of the page of scribbled rhyme. "Maker, this...This is about me isn’t it?”  
Faer’s head snapped up.  
Cullen’s eyebrows were knit together. He looked like he was not entirely certain, but also pretty convinced,  
Faer laughed.  
“What? No. No-no-no, this is about a character in a story—erm, Fire, and—and—and, Commander—erm, Brotherdoor.”  
Fuck.  
Brotherdoor. Why the hell did she say such a stupid.  
Cullen was quiet for a moment, turning thoughts over in his head. He folded the piece of paper again, fingering it nervously.  
“Well, I’m no Orlesian maiden, but I think it’s rather good poetry.” He spoke gently.  
Faer all but snorted.  
Cullen glanced at her, amused.  
“It isn’t good, by any means.” Faer protested.  
Cullen shrugged.  
“That’s more the audience’s decision. I should think.” As he spoke he peered over the wall to the valley below.  
Faer snatched the bird from his hand and sent it flying through the breeze.  
Cullen was reaching into his pocket for something.  
“Perhaps, would—would it make you feel better, Inquisitor, if I shared something I’ve written, with you?”  
Faer froze.  
There he was again; trying to make her feel better. She was fine.  
“It’s alright. I’m fine—“  
Cullen had unfolded the page and handed it to her. He was slightly more rosy than even the wind would have made him.  
Faer’s eyebrows knit together.  
She took the paper and read it carefully.  
It was prose; just thoughts, as if written late at night, scratched out in spots, and yet, his penmanship was fine.  
Once she finished reading, Cullen standing nervously waiting for response.  
Faer shrugged.  
“It’s not so bad either.”  
“Oh!” Cullen spoke, a little suddenly. “Er, that’s good to know. Err—“  
He had his hand on the back of his neck, not making eye-contact.  
Faer glanced back down at the page. Anything to avoid awkward Cullen.  
’And she dances still, though troubled times are here for all. She is the music that carries to summer through the autumn and winter. She is the breath that springs alive the—‘  
Shit.  
Faer looked up at Cullen again, then back down at the page.  
Cullen was dead still and silent.  
“Wait.” Faer’s voice was pitched up oddly. She shook her head.  
“Cullen—erm, is this about—about…”  
“You?” He finished her sentence nervously.  
Faer nodded, feeling that she was now all red in the face, between the wind and this sudden awkwardness.  
“Er, well, yes.” Cullen said; leaning against the wall, just as she had been doing not five minutes ago.  
Faer’s brow was so furrowed, her mind eagerly trying to make sense of all of this.  
She had been out here to get over Cullen. And here he was—returning her formerly-thought--unrequited, love?  
No. No. This—this didn’t make sense.  
“Andraste.” Faer swore in barely a whisper.  
Cullen looked so nervous.  
“This has to be Elfroot induced.” Faer concluded firmly. “There is no way any of this is real. Sera must have slipped some into my teapot—I’ve had so much tea today, and over-dosing Elfroot, even like that—well, it does weird things to me. I start seeing things--once I even--“  
“It’s probably not Elfroot.” The Commander spoke, a little hint of a joking tone at the edge of his voice.  
Faer shook her head.  
“No. It has to be.”  
Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, as if desperately trying to find the right words. The sun was all but gone now; a blue stillness of the evening had fallen on the fortress.  
Faer tucked her hands into the sleeves on her tunic. Her nose and ears having lost all feeling, the cold air was now trying for her fingers.  
“We are neither good with feelings.” Cullen spoke suddenly.  
Faer looked up at him, her brow still furrowed.  
“Yeah?”  
Cullen nodded.  
“Er, yeah. And I probably should have told you months ago how I feel—but, I was afraid—“  
“It’d be unreciprocated?” Faer interrupted.  
Cullen nodded. “Exactly.”  
A grin was wanting to dance across Faer’s face, but somehow—it didn’t.  
“Well, Cullen. I know I am bad with feelings...but you don't seem to be the type of person who is--but Me, hah--” Faer spoke, leaning on the wall beside him.  
“I avoid them like the Venatori, only—worse.”  
Cullen chuckled, causing Faer to smile.  
“And, I guess... I should have told you months ago how I felt.”  
Faer could just make out his confused expression.  
“Wait, you mean—wait, all this time?’  
Faer buried her head in her sleeves.  
“Since Haven.” She mumbled, her voice muffled through the thick tunic's sleeves.  
Cullen let out a sigh. She wasn’t sure what sort of sigh it was. She glanced up at him.  
He was staring dead ahead, looking amused.  
“What?” Faer asked.  
Cullen looked down at her, his eyes alight with a self-depreciating humour.  
“Just women, and—and, how I never can manage to understand how they feel.”  
Faer tilted her head to the side.  
“Is that an insult, or you just admitting that you’re stupid?”  
Cullen laughed again. Faer felt a swarm of butterflies swirl like a thousand papers flying from the top of the battlements, start in her stomach.  
Faer pulled her hands from her sleeves, nervously reaching down to grab Cullen’s gloved one.


	2. Inquisitor Scroop Cadash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scroop Cadash, wait--that's me!  
> Here's a introduction to my little character darling.  
> She has about a fourth-grade writing voice, a head covered in violent red hair, a snub nose, and the dorkiest deep voice you've ever heard.

~ **Scroop **~****

Unlikely is a new Grey Warden, who, despite every single setback possible, somehow managed to kill some great and mighty lore-remembered Archdemon and come out just a little roughed up on the other side.

What’s odd is a refugee escaping the Blight and becoming a mighty warrior. A leader in her new home, a warrior and a perfect example of strength—but even after all her victories her lover destroys the only means of peace to an inevitable war.  
Ah. Stories. These are great aren’t they?

Extremely talented and wonderful people succeeding and becoming heroes—it’s almost as satisfying as striking down a Nug with a single arrow. Less gory, yeah, sure.  
But my story’s not really like either of these.  
What’s absurd is a dwarf, respectable in her own right, who managed to land a job with the Makerforsaken Carta and not get sliced open one too many times.

 

What’s absurd is being the one to survive the most massive explosion in the history of Thedas.

 

But what’s even more absurd is that same suspect and survivor becoming the leader of an age-old order…and for the Chantry no less.  
This might all seem like a load of bullshit to you, but I think if you want to find it as weird as I do, I’m gonna have to explain. Bear with me.

My name’s Scroop Cadash…or, Inquisitor ‘Lady’ Scrupulous Helga Cadash; whatever works for you.

I am dwarf born on the surface. My family was cast out from our people, and had been for many centuries. I was just another Stoneless daughter in a large adoptive hungry family. I can’t sing the song of the Stone, I can’t sense it, and I don’t even want to.  
My Mother worked for a man named Fletch. He ran a line of assassins and other mercenary forces before the Carta bought him out. Well, I guess ‘bought’ is the nice way to put it.

Anyway, with Fletch’s business went Mother’s job, and her life, but my kin and I were still promised to work for Fletch.  
He kinda was the one who made sure there was food on our table, so there were all these contracts and shit about “the descendants of Family Cadash”. We were Carta merchandise now.

Mom saw that we were taken care of, and now it was my job.

I didn’t know any older ‘siblings’ I might have had, all I knew were the six who were younger than I.

Bianca, Tomlin, Bianca II, Phil, Gar—something…I forget.  
Mom took us in, we were a mixed family, but we had each other’s backs.  
Anyway.

Spring forward a few years and you’ve got me.

Dead bodies all around me, full moon, knives covered in gore…oh yes, just like that.  
The men in my crew were making sure our job was done. I was above that now.  
Now I was Scroop.  
I had my nickname, and people knew it if they knew what was good for them.

Surfacer Carta ranks don’t really exist. Either you’re respected, working, or you’re dead.

You’ve got missions and jobs, assassinations and plots, and you just get in there and go. No big deal.  
I was nineteen and capable of anything when I was called in by the man in charge.

Set on a mission, largely against my personal preference—might I add, to spy on some major meeting in Southern Thedas. Weeks of rough travel and then blend in among all those Chantry chickens. It wasn’t my cup of tea. I’d do it though.  
House Cadash, we’d been Lyrium smugglers for centuries. The Carta decided that I’d be a best fit to figure out what the hell was going on with the Templar and Mages, and who we should work with.

I’m not going to pretend to be a diplomat, because I’m not. I don’t talk unless I have to, communication is saved for dire circumstance—or drunken jokes. I didn’t think the Boss would be happy if I signed some big deal at the Conclave drunk. So I would spy, quietly, and avoid social situations that required my talking, until someone said the magical L word.

I arrived, along with hundreds of others. It was massive. I’ve not seen so many people with a single purpose in my life…well, up until recently, but that’s—nevermind.  
A load of shit went down, and then blew up, and then came down, and then I was marked—and, whatever.

I ended up in Haven after a load on rude interrogation, being pushed around, and swearing loudly at the sky.  
Apparently people like me now, and I'm inclined to let them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sroop Cadash is a small smug dwarven Inquisitor. She's always taking things the wrong way, getting confused by big people, but still managing to get shit done.  
> She doesn't understand magic, only knows it's dangerous af and must be avoided at all costs.  
> She's fond of children, fond of adrenaline, and REALLY fond of Sera.


	3. Scroop in the Tavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Scroop

Maryden’s voice crept up Scroop’s spine as she entered the tavern.  
She wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, about it that pissed her off so terribly.  
Scroop dare not tell Maryden, and she knew far better than to complain to Josie, lest Maryden get kicked out and start spreading songs about how the Inquisition was against well-meaning bards.

And they weren’t. It was just—Maryden’s voice.

“You always tense up like that when you come in here—What’s goin on?”  
Scroop glanced up at Sera who had just appeared, as if from nowhere, to the seat beside her.  
“If I didn’t know better—I’d say old Maryden’s got you all tense-y shit and nervey. She’s creepy, I tell you.”  
Scroop sighed.  
“Something about her singing, I guess, just sets me on—“  
_“--Sera was never an agreeable girl, her tongue tells tales of rebellion.“_ The bard’s song rang out after a brief pause.  
Scroop saw Sera visibly cringe, her sharp eyes flashed at Scroop as she turned towards Maryden.  
“Fuck off Maryden! I’m not interested!”

The Herald tried to keep a straight face, glad her back was turned from the bard, who had stopped playing suddenly.  
“If you have a problem with my accurate preservation of your legacy, Sera, I would gladly hear it and do my best to—“  
“blahblahblah, Oh yeah Mary?” Sera stood up, arms crossed over her chest, as she confronted Maryden.  
“Well it’s creepy, innit? Your song’s all like: “Sera’s gonna kill you, you’re gonna be dead, she’s all rebellious and gonna stick an arrow up your arse--! And that’s mostly true an’ all, but you think it’s alright to go about spoutin whatsit nonsense shit like some gurgling sewer-pipe about _‘why change the past when you can own this—‘_ whatever--? I never said that. And I don't much like your song at all, it’s creeping me out.”  
Scroop listened carefully.  
Maryden sighed.  
“If that’s how you feel, I’ll play something else.”  
Sera seemed to deflate.  
“What? Just like that?”  
The Herald’s eyebrows arched, she listened carefully.  
“What’s up with you lot and you’re endin’ squabbles like grannies…” Sera’s voice disappeared into incoherent mumbles as she sank back down by Scroop.  
_“Enchanters, the time has come to be alive!”_  
The bard’s voice ran down Scroop’s spine and she endeavoured to pass as indifferent.  
“Nice try back there.” She muttered to Sera, who was still mumbling.  
“Well shite she’s still singin’ ain’t she?”  
Scroop nodded, staring, dazzled by the light, into the fire.  
“Whoa, wait. Wait—your Worshipyness—“ Sera began, her attention suddenly fully on Scroop.  
“What Sera?” Scroop pulled her gaze from the fire.  
“You don’t like Maryden, do you?” Sera ventured.  
Scroop cocked her head to the side, eyebrows raised in surprise.  
“Naw, I love Maryden.”  
“You’re grimacing though. Something about her definitely sets you off.”  
Scroop shrugged.  
“I’ve known a lot of bards.”  
Sera wasn’t satisfied.  
“I bet it’s her voice, innit? I bet it makes shivers run up and down your spine.”  
She playfully ran her finger down the back of Scroop’s coat.  
Scroop raised an eyebrow at her.  
“Not quite like that.”  
Sera giggled mischievously.  
“It’s nice to know you’re peeveable.”  
Scroop squinted closely at Sera.  
“You try anything—and I’ll have Cassandra after you.”  
Sera snorted. “I’d like to see her try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sroop Cadash is a small smug dwarven Inquisitor. She's always taking things the wrong way, getting confused by big people, but still managing to get shit done.  
> She doesn't understand magic, only knows it's dangerous af and must be avoided at all costs.  
> She's fond of children, fond of adrenaline, and REALLY fond of Sera.

**Author's Note:**

> Lady Faer Trevelyan is my little Trevelyan who is terrible at communicating emotions. She's always worried people will attempt to comfort her, or make her feel better, when really she is fine--but that keeps her from communicating in those moments when she is not fine. When she is not ok, when a hug would really be beneficial.  
> Josie is always telling her fellow advisors, (behind Inky's back of course), to be sure to ask that Faer is alright. To be sure she is communicating, because she just doesn't naturally talk about it, and with everything that happens, has happened, they need their Inquisitor to be in top form.  
> Thus the encouragement to talk, the persistent questions, even the gentle hand trying to comfort.  
> Lady Trevelyan writes, however, and she write a lot--but it's usually tossed to the wind.


End file.
